If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.

If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.

If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.

If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.

If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.

If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.

If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.

If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.

If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.

If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.

If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.

If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.

If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.

If She Knew You Were Coming...

A few years ago, someone asked me, if I could eat anywhere in the world, where would it be? The answer came without hesitation—at my mother’s table.

This piece, If She Knew You Were Coming… is about my mother. Not just about the food she made, but the people she gathered, the life she helped to me imagine, and the gratitude I feel.

# # #

My mother loved to gather good people around a table. I am the fifth of six children so one could make the case that she already had plenty enough to feed, but we were forever adding leaves to our old walnut table to accommodate a few more chairs and place settings.

Her kitchen was her studio. She read recipe books like novels and never tossed the food section of a newspaper without first clipping a few recipes she looked forward to trying.

Her guests were as varied as her cuisine. There were small town folk and big city people, artists, teachers, hippies and John Birchers. Atheist, Mormons, conservatives and liberals dined at our table; homosexuals and missionaries, world travelers, people of color, and there were even a few people with little or no color that snuck in now and again.

Interesting conversations peppered with laughter lingered long after dishes were cleared and kids were not encouraged to hurry away. These people and the stories they told were a window to the world for my siblings and me. Through them I began to imagine a life of travel and adventure. Through them I saw a creative life that did not follow a usual path.